Saturday, 27 March 2010
Friday, 26 March 2010
Fridays are a joy
When I take tram number 20 or 25 in the morning, I go straight past a canal. I don't know if it's exactly a canal, but it's too small to be a river, and too big to be a stream, so the Canal it shall be. The Canal is surrounded by green, and modern art sculptures that even I, with my mind, don't understand. Bridges run over it, and pigeons swim around in it. A wrinkly, crooked tree is mourning over it. It's ignoring the bright sun, finally warming this place. The water is like liquid mercury. It's perfectly still. Not a ripple, not a sigh, nothing. I can see the perfect reflection of the tree, and the sculptures, and myself as I pass in the tram.
I especially like Fridays because I have 3 free periods, and then something we all call "TOK". TOK is a myth that only very very very gullible people believe. It's a lie. Kind of like god, except not that big.
Fridays are what I call my up days. Fridays and Thursdays sometimes too. Today my up day was spent swinging on swings, skipping TOK and smoking 2 joints and 2 packs of fags. Today was a good day. Except I got home, and paranoid as I was, threw away my last 3 fags and my crappy lighter. Nothing happened though. Nothing.
Yesterday I saw birds. The birds weren't there. They were produced by a mix of dehydration, period pain, passing out, paracetamol and hash (the tiniest amount though, so I'm convinced that the birds were due to other things). They flew in perfect patterns, one after the other. I saw them greet me after waking up in the school concierge's car. When I got out they weren't there. Wasn't the weed though, wasn't.
I got to find out my grades today as well. Finally. The school had sent them to the wrong address. Some poor bastard probably wondered who these funny named people are (Kristiina, Veli-Matti, what kinds of names are those?).
Here we go.
Altogether: 39 points
Not bad for someone like me, I think. I'm quite content.
I'm 3 points away from a perfect score. But they'll go down. Biology will at least, of that I'm positive. I'm crap at biology. And logic. And math.
I think I need some cranberry juice now, and some Bridget Jones.
I especially like Fridays because I have 3 free periods, and then something we all call "TOK". TOK is a myth that only very very very gullible people believe. It's a lie. Kind of like god, except not that big.
Fridays are what I call my up days. Fridays and Thursdays sometimes too. Today my up day was spent swinging on swings, skipping TOK and smoking 2 joints and 2 packs of fags. Today was a good day. Except I got home, and paranoid as I was, threw away my last 3 fags and my crappy lighter. Nothing happened though. Nothing.
Yesterday I saw birds. The birds weren't there. They were produced by a mix of dehydration, period pain, passing out, paracetamol and hash (the tiniest amount though, so I'm convinced that the birds were due to other things). They flew in perfect patterns, one after the other. I saw them greet me after waking up in the school concierge's car. When I got out they weren't there. Wasn't the weed though, wasn't.
I got to find out my grades today as well. Finally. The school had sent them to the wrong address. Some poor bastard probably wondered who these funny named people are (Kristiina, Veli-Matti, what kinds of names are those?).
Here we go.
- Math HL ... 5
- Art HL ... 7
- English A1 HL ... 7
- French B SL ... 6
- Biology SL ... 7
- History SL ... 7
- TOK ... 4
Altogether: 39 points
Not bad for someone like me, I think. I'm quite content.
I'm 3 points away from a perfect score. But they'll go down. Biology will at least, of that I'm positive. I'm crap at biology. And logic. And math.
I think I need some cranberry juice now, and some Bridget Jones.
Wednesday, 24 March 2010
Telling you things even I don't know
It's been a day. Or two days. I'm not sure.
I've been wanting to tell this story for a while.
And I think today's the day.
When I was 8 I lived in Sweden for a year. I lived with my brothers and my father and a nanny. Or au-pair as you call them these days. My mother wasn't there, she was too preoccupied with her bars and lesbians. My next door neighboar, a selfish fat prat, used to steal my videos and my playdoh. It's okay though, because at night I would water the streets so her little chalk pokemon would be washed away.
Now this is not meant to be a "woe is me" story, and indeed it's not, because I don't regret a second.
My nanny was an alcoholic. She called herself Laura and had real snickers in her hair. She gave me a bath once and told me about periods, and that was the only time anyone had mentioned it to me until the day I got mine. After St Patrick's day she'd sleep on the sofa, with her beer-belly hanging off and her snickers all tangled up, one leg on the floor and tell me to please darling, get me some ciggies from your father won't you? and I do. When I came back she was on the floor, this time with one leg still on the sofa. Sometimes she'd forget to take us to school, my brothers and me. We would get to the British International Primary School of Stockholm at 11am and go home at 6pm. Then one day I got home and she wasn't there. She was never there again.
My dear brother, silly little thing, glued chairs. He pressed pencils in there and spread glue with a glue stick all over it. He wrote his name on them, and no one could sit on his chair. The one with his name on it. He ran into the garden and shat on the tulips. He cut the hair off my barbies and flushed them down the toilet, which is okay because I preferred crawling in the forest with snails and things, pretending to be whatever I wanted to be right then and there. He watched Lion King over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. Until the tape broke.
When I was 8 I had my first crush. His name was Alexander, and he was British. He was a little nerd like me, very interested in videogames. I decided to tell him, and I wrote it in the ground. He ran away, and I've never been able to tell anyone since.
At school we also had the best market system. We had tables, and things for sale. Real nice things too, like Pokemon cards, necklaces, games, everything a kid wants. But the best thing of all- the currency was peach and plum stones. I never had any, I never got peaches or plums and the ones in the schoolyard were gone by the time I got to school (which was around 11am, as I said before) so I never got to buy anything, but I was amazed nonetheless at the way it worked. And it worked. We (or they, rather) traded, bought, sold, negotiated, bargained, argued and compromised. Peach stones were worth more than plum stones, and dirty stones were worth less than clean ones. I wish that still worked.
Funny how all I remember is the autumn. I remember gold and red, yellow and brown. I remember the bad nanny, vodka bottles, balloons and rotting wood, glue sticks and peach stones and powerpuff girls and Harry Potter. I remember onions and Dinosaurier and playdoh sticks and cheesy gift CDs from Burger King. And then I don't remember.
Then I don't remember anything at all.
But none of it matters. None of this matters anymore. Because I'm not 8, and I'm not in Sweden and I can't do what I want to do. Things don't work like that. Like someone said to me today, nothing matters when you're sober. It's all whatever.
I've been wanting to tell this story for a while.
And I think today's the day.
When I was 8 I lived in Sweden for a year. I lived with my brothers and my father and a nanny. Or au-pair as you call them these days. My mother wasn't there, she was too preoccupied with her bars and lesbians. My next door neighboar, a selfish fat prat, used to steal my videos and my playdoh. It's okay though, because at night I would water the streets so her little chalk pokemon would be washed away.
Now this is not meant to be a "woe is me" story, and indeed it's not, because I don't regret a second.
My nanny was an alcoholic. She called herself Laura and had real snickers in her hair. She gave me a bath once and told me about periods, and that was the only time anyone had mentioned it to me until the day I got mine. After St Patrick's day she'd sleep on the sofa, with her beer-belly hanging off and her snickers all tangled up, one leg on the floor and tell me to please darling, get me some ciggies from your father won't you? and I do. When I came back she was on the floor, this time with one leg still on the sofa. Sometimes she'd forget to take us to school, my brothers and me. We would get to the British International Primary School of Stockholm at 11am and go home at 6pm. Then one day I got home and she wasn't there. She was never there again.
My dear brother, silly little thing, glued chairs. He pressed pencils in there and spread glue with a glue stick all over it. He wrote his name on them, and no one could sit on his chair. The one with his name on it. He ran into the garden and shat on the tulips. He cut the hair off my barbies and flushed them down the toilet, which is okay because I preferred crawling in the forest with snails and things, pretending to be whatever I wanted to be right then and there. He watched Lion King over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. Until the tape broke.
When I was 8 I had my first crush. His name was Alexander, and he was British. He was a little nerd like me, very interested in videogames. I decided to tell him, and I wrote it in the ground. He ran away, and I've never been able to tell anyone since.
At school we also had the best market system. We had tables, and things for sale. Real nice things too, like Pokemon cards, necklaces, games, everything a kid wants. But the best thing of all- the currency was peach and plum stones. I never had any, I never got peaches or plums and the ones in the schoolyard were gone by the time I got to school (which was around 11am, as I said before) so I never got to buy anything, but I was amazed nonetheless at the way it worked. And it worked. We (or they, rather) traded, bought, sold, negotiated, bargained, argued and compromised. Peach stones were worth more than plum stones, and dirty stones were worth less than clean ones. I wish that still worked.
Funny how all I remember is the autumn. I remember gold and red, yellow and brown. I remember the bad nanny, vodka bottles, balloons and rotting wood, glue sticks and peach stones and powerpuff girls and Harry Potter. I remember onions and Dinosaurier and playdoh sticks and cheesy gift CDs from Burger King. And then I don't remember.
Then I don't remember anything at all.
But none of it matters. None of this matters anymore. Because I'm not 8, and I'm not in Sweden and I can't do what I want to do. Things don't work like that. Like someone said to me today, nothing matters when you're sober. It's all whatever.
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
Wilheminaplein
Wilhelminaplein is where it's at, yo. Or where I'm at anyway. Some pictures, because it's really, very beautiful.
This is all within 500m from my house, so it really is like this. I didn't go around trying to find the best-looking spots in Rotterdam ;D
And that's where I live. Those ugly little brown box houses there. Well, I live in one of them. Not all. Obviously.
Idiot.
This is all within 500m from my house, so it really is like this. I didn't go around trying to find the best-looking spots in Rotterdam ;D
And that's where I live. Those ugly little brown box houses there. Well, I live in one of them. Not all. Obviously.
Idiot.
Sunday, 21 March 2010
Poop poop
The Importance of Being Ernest by Oscar Wilde
Walden by Henry David Thoreau
Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame
Slaughter-House Five by Kurt Vonnegut
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson
Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
The House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende (Don't watch the movie, it's awful).
Ei, siis Kyllä by Paavo Haavikko (Finnish only).
PS. alex/xander.
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